


“I don’t look like Leo Banks in my pants!”

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: First Kisses [47]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: More messing about with cars, Oil and grease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 04:57:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16695880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Still revisiting First Kisses...





	“I don’t look like Leo Banks in my pants!”

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hobbeshalftail3469](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbeshalftail3469/gifts).



> A gift for hobbeshalftail3469’s very specific prompt. Essentially more messing about with vehicles! Hope I’ve done it justice! And thank you for letting me borrow the gorgeous [Leo](https://lulacat3.tumblr.com/post/180345134955/hobbeshalftail3469) <3  
>  

“Right,” Robin said as she turned the Land Rover onto the disused airfield she’d identified on Google Maps. “Where do you want to start?”

Strike gazed around at the expanse in front of them. “Well, I guess in a nice big space to start with? We can always make our way down to those sheds if I want to practise tighter manoeuvres.”

Robin nodded. “Over here, then?” She pointed to a wide, flat area on the way to the old buildings that looked as though it might have once been a turning area for planes. It looked less cracked and overgrown than the rest of the field. Strike nodded, and Robin swung the Land Rover in that direction.

She still wasn’t entirely sure this was a good idea, but Strike had come up with the plan, and at the very least, it was a day out with him and a picnic. The September sun was still warm, and she’d packed plenty of food, a thermos of coffee and the picnic blanket in the back of the vehicle. She’d also thrown in, on impulse, the copy of Hello! she’d bought in Tesco when she popped for supplies this morning. It contained an article she was particularly keen to see.

The airfield was quiet. They’d come during the week deliberately. Strike had suddenly announced on their last surveillance job, in a manner which suggested he’d been thinking about it for some time, that he should have a go at driving the Land Rover. He had become much more confident behind the wheel since acquiring the BMW, and it would be useful if they could both drive both vehicles. The Land Rover, with its heavy clutch and what Robin kindly described as “unique” gearbox, was a very different prospect for a man with one leg than the smooth automatic BMW. It had been Robin’s suggestion that he practise well away from other road users and, more importantly for his ego (she had three brothers, after all, and knew how these things worked), public view.

Strike had scoffed a little, then thought about it and decided that on balance it was probably a good idea, having watched the capable Robin wrestling with the gear stick and muttering “bugger” under her breath, making him hide a smile.

Robin pulled the battered vehicle into a large space that might once have been a helipad, and pulled the handbrake on. “Right, swap.” She unclipped her seat belt and climbed out, stretching a little. She’d been so tempted to wear a little summer dress, to make the most of the last of the hot weather, but practicality had won out and she’d gone for a white fitted tee, her green walking trousers and sturdy trainers. Strike was in dark cargo trousers and a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Robin inwardly congratulated herself on having managed to mostly keep her eyes to herself.

Strike got out of the vehicle too and crossed around to the driver’s door. Robin grinned at him as they passed. “You sure you’re ready for this? She’s got character.”

He grinned back. “How hard can it be?”

Robin kept her thoughts on that to herself as she climbed back into the passenger side, hiding her admiring glance across at the way Strike swung himself into the vehicle using mostly his upper body strength, one large hand on the driver’s seat and one gripping the door frame.

He settled himself in the seat, reaching down for the lever to slide it back as far as it would go, adjusting the mirrors.

“Right,” he said, his big hands on the wheel.

“Your main problem,” Robin said, “is the clutch is quite heavy so it’s hard to find the bite point at first. Are you going to try to do all three pedals with your left foot? Would that mean you’ll have to practise yanking it out of gear in an emergency stop?”

Strike looked down at his feet. It occurred to him that he hadn’t really thought this through. “I’ll start by trying with my right as well,” he said. “Once I’m going, I can switch to the left.”

Robin nodded, and wondered if he’d take offence if she grabbed the handle above her head. The Land Rover was difficult enough to manage when you were fully able bodied, and she’d been driving it for years. She could still remember Matthew cursing it the first few times he’d tried to drive it.

“Okay, starting it,” she said. “You have to turn the key, and then listen. It’ll turn over a couple of times, and then it makes a kind of little coughing sound and you touch the accelerator, just a bit to give it some oomph, and it should catch. Not too much, though, or you’ll flood it.”

Strike nodded, his brows knitted together in concentration. He fitted the key into the ignition and turned it deftly. The engine coughed, and he pressed the accelerator. The Land Rover started, roared briefly and stalled.

Robin giggled. “Right, that was too much,” she said. “Told you it had character.”

Strike scowled and tried again.

It took four tries in the end, and Robin could sense his impatience. Matthew had given up in a huff the first time he’d tried, declaring it broken, but Strike had at least persevered and was willing to listen to her.

“Okay, your next problem is keeping her in first gear,” Robin said. “It jumps out. I tend to just hold it there until I change up to second.”

Strike glanced sideways at her. “Remind me again why you keep this thing.”

“It’s a family heirloom!”

Strike rolled his eyes a little and nodded.

And so the lesson proceeded. Robin was impressed with how patient Strike was and how willing to listen. He didn’t seem to mind when she squeaked a bit when he got the clutch bite wrong and catapulted them forwards, merely muttering an apology, frowning in concentration. Robin found herself repeatedly distracted by his focus, his knit brows, his big hands on gear stick and steering wheel, his forearms darkly haired below the rolled-up cuffs of his sleeves. _Concentrate,_ she told herself.

The Land Rover was indeed proving more difficult than Strike had imagined, and was making his right leg ache. He was just wondering what would be a good way to suggest they break for food, when on a particularly difficult gear change, the engine squawked, coughed and died, and refused to start again. Steam issued gently from under the bonnet.

“Bugger,” Robin muttered.

Strike gave the handbrake a powerful pull that made Robin briefly wonder if she’d be strong enough to let the brake off again should she ever have to drive it right after him, and there was silence.

“The bonnet release is down to your right somewhere,” Robin said. Strike hunted about and found it, and they clambered out of the vehicle and went round to the front. Strike propped the bonnet up on its stick and they regarded the gently steaming engine.

Strike ducked under the bonnet, reached out to test the oil cap and snatched his hand back as soon as he touched it, swearing. Robin giggled as he stuck his fingers in his mouth, trying not to stare.

“We just drove all the way from London, of course it’ll be hot,” she said. “Come on, let’s go and eat while it cools down, we can try and diagnose later.”

Strike nodded and they moved to the back of the vehicle to retrieve the picnic bag, mat and reading materials. Strike had brought the paper so he could do the crossword. He was amused to see Robin with a society magazine. She usually read more highbrow things, though he supposed she must get her celebrity gossip news from somewhere.

They found a patch of softer grass over near the hedge, spread the mat and sat down. Strike inspected his burned fingers which were slightly oily, Robin noticed, and she had a sudden urge to kiss them better for him. _Stop it,_ she told herself. _This crush business is getting out of control. Colleagues, friends, remember._

Strike opened his sandwiches and picked up the paper which was already folded to the crossword. He’d looked at it idly in the Land Rover on the way down, but hadn’t solved any clues yet.

Robin grabbed her pack of sandwiches and pulled her magazine across in front of her. This week’s cover star was the famous model Leo Banks. She gazed at him for a moment, almost obscenely handsome as he grinned out from the cover, arms folded in a soft jumper, shoulder length hair around his face, beard close cropped. He was unusual for a modern model in that he was neither ridiculously young nor hairless, which all the other male models seemed to be. Robin liked him - she’d read the odd interview with him and he seemed very down to earth and not pretentious. The article promised the reader a look around his new “luxury abode”. She found it and gasped slightly at the first picture, of him leaning casually on the front door to his building in T-shirt, jeans and boots, gazing impassively at the camera, the building’s impressive facade taking nothing away from his raw masculinity.

Strike glanced across at her. “Who’s that?”

Robin looked at him. “Seriously?” Strike’s lack of knowledge of the celebrity world never ceased to amaze her. He shrugged.

“That’s Leo Banks!” Robin said. She turned her gaze back to the magazine and brushed her fingers across the page as she went to turn it.

The next page treated her to a back view of the model walking up a sweeping staircase, his hand trailing lightly on the bannister, elegant fingers barely touching the polished wood.

“Who is he?” Strike was none the wiser.

“He’s a model.”

“Hm.” Strike didn’t sound impressed. He watched as Robin touched the page again, trailing her fingertips across the same polished bannister as the model. For reasons he didn’t want to admit to himself, her action made him feel spiky and threatened.

Robin turned the next page on her magazine and sighed. Strike scowled darkly. This picture showed the man in a cream slim-fitting jumper and jeans, leaning casually against a marble-topped island unit in a huge ice-white kitchen. He rested one elegant hip against the unit, coffee mug in hand, although he wasn’t holding it by the handle, which in Strike’s opinion made him look like a tosser. Robin gazed and gazed at the picture, rapt, and Strike tried to concentrate on his crossword.

Eventually the temptation to make snide comments was too much. “I don’t know why they bother with words in those articles,” he grumbled. “Clearly everyone only wants the pictures.”

“Well, exactly,” Robin agreed, to his surprise. He’d have expected her to at least feign a literary interest. “When do us normal folk ever get to see such sights?”

“You admit you’re just ogling, then?”

She grinned. “Absolutely. I mean, look.” She held up the centre spread for him to see. A huge living room filled the two pages. The gorgeous model reclined on a central sofa, TV remote dangling casually from elegant fingers. Books were arranged artfully on the low coffee table in front of him. Huge glass doors opening out onto a tiled terrace were slightly out of focus behind him. He wore (probably eye-wateringly expensive, Strike thought) sweat pants and a marl grey T-shirt and looked ridiculously staged to Strike’s grumpy gaze.

“Humph,” he muttered, looking away again.

Robin gave him a cheeky grin. “Cormoran, are you jealous?” she teased, and saw him bristle.

“No,” he said crossly. “I just think it’s a bit ridiculous.”

Robin patted his knee condescendingly, a gesture that annoyed him much more than it should have. “Nobody expects normal people to compare,” she said. “That’s why these magazines are so popular, so we can sigh over them.”

Scowling, Strike turned his attention firmly back to his crossword, aware that he hadn’t actually filled in a single answer yet. “It’s probably all photoshopped anyway,” he muttered.

Robin turned the page, and breathed “Wow....” Against his will, Strike glanced across, and muttered “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

The model lay reclined on some kind of bean bag furniture, Strike decided it was, wearing only his pants. The chair was on a large outdoor terrace, with the London skyline laid out behind him. Robin sat for a long time, just looking. The man was staring straight at the camera through hooded eyes, his hair swept back, his left arm resting on the back of the seat, hand half across his sultry mouth. _What a show-off,_ Strike thought.

Robin tilted her head on one side. “I don’t think it is photoshopped,” she said. She angled the page a little. “Looks realistic to me.”

Strike glanced sideways again, at the taut abs, muscular, haired chest and frankly improbable bulge in the dark underwear, and snorted. “Real people don’t look anything like that, Robin,” he declared. He found himself suddenly wondering if young, lithe Matthew had in fact looked a little like that, and his heart plummeted. An overweight, hairy detective was hardly going to compare.

He suddenly realised Robin was staring at him. “What?”

Realisation swept across her face. “Cormoran...you do know I’m ogling the flat, right? It’s a penthouse in Kensington, probably cost millions and millions. Look at the view from the terrace! Did you... Did you think I was ogling Leo Banks?”

Strike flushed red. “No,” he said at once, but Robin was grinning now. “Yeah, you did. I mean, don’t get me wrong. He’s a fantastically good-looking guy. But he’s openly gay, and apparently completely loved up with his new man, some ad agency exec, I think the gossip columns said, though there’s no mention of him here.”

Strike shifted uncomfortably, remembering her rapt expression, the way she’d trailed her fingers across the pages. He realised that every picture, despite containing the glamorous Mr Banks, had in fact been showcasing a different room in his incredible apartment.

“I think the engine might be cool enough by now,” he muttered, turning his flushed cheeks away, busying himself packing up the food to try to hide his discomfort and, more importantly, avoid Robin’s knowing grin. He wished she’d stop looking at him.

Robin said no more, but closed the magazine and moved to help pack up the picnic, thinking. Why had Strike reacted so badly to her apparently admiring a male model? She knew threatened male ego when she saw it, but why would he care so much what she thought? Could he...?

Strike hauled himself to his feet and set off for the Land Rover without looking back. Robin shot a sideways glance at the magazine. “Thanks, Leo,” she murmured, winking at him. “You’ve helped reveal a little truth someone was trying to hide.” She paused, looking more closely at the smiling face, dark eyes, heavy brows. _He doesn’t look entirely unlike Cormoran, actually,_ she thought. _If Cormoran grew his hair that long and straightened it a bit..._ She chuckled to herself. Strike was long overdue a haircut, and his hair had become really quite wild even for him. “Disastrous” was the word Ilsa had fondly used at their last curry night. _I wonder how long it would actually be if it was straightened,_ she thought. A brief image ran through her mind of offering to do it for him, and she shook her head, imagining the look he’d give her.

 _And their hands are actually remarkably similar,_ she mused, her eyes on Leo’s hands where they rested around his biceps. _I do like a man with strong hands._

She turned her gaze away, chastising herself. _Safer to ogle a model in a magazine,_ she thought ruefully. She finished packing up the food and took the bag and blanket across to the Land Rover, loaded them into the back and went round the to front to see how Strike was getting on.

She paused as she came around behind him to admire his backside as he leaned over the engine, fiddling with something, the cargo trousers stretched tight.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” she asked hesitantly.

Strike just grunted, gripping the oil cap tightly to unscrew it, twisting it powerfully when it stuck. “When did you last check the oil? And yes, I used to tinker a bit with the Vikings we used in the Army. Basically the same.”

Robin banished a delicious mental image of mechanic Strike in Army camouflage gear messing about under the bonnets of military vehicles. _What has got into you?_ “Er, not too long ago,” she said. “You’re getting covered in oil.”

“Goes with the territory,” Strike said, pausing to hunt in his pockets for a tissue, wiping a big hand across the sweat on his brow and only succeeding in smearing a streak of oil across his forehead. Tissue found, he pulled the dipstick from the oil reservoir, wiped it, plunged it back in and withdrew it again. “Oil’s fine, so it’s not that.”

“I’m not completely useless,” Robin muttered.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.”

Strike eyed her sideways, then turned back to replace the oil cap. “Radiator could do with more water, but it’s not low enough to be causing a problem,” he said. Next thing Robin knew, he was poking about at various bits of tubing. She closed her eyes. She was just going to have to trust him. At least one of her brothers would have seriously broken something before they’d admit they didn’t know what they were doing, whereas Matthew would have declared such tasks beneath him and called a mechanic to hide his ignorance. _What is it with men and cars?_ she wondered.

She did have to admit, though, that Strike looked like he knew what to do. She moved closer, fascinated, as he pulled at this, inspected that, his big hands (covered in grease now, she noted with a little shiver) by turns deft and gentle as he checked the engine over thoroughly.

One piece of tubing appeared to be stuck and he gave it a sharp tug, only for it to come free with a jerk, splattering oily bits across them both. Strike swore and Robin jumped back a little.

“Sorry,” he said, casting a rueful look at her. Robin stared in dismay at his splattered front. “Oh, Cormoran, your shirt...”

He glanced down at himself and shrugged. “Other shirts are available,” he said. “Serves me right for tinkering with an engine wearing a light-coloured shirt in the first place.”

He moved towards her. “You’ve got...” He wasn’t sure where to start. Robin in fact had several small splatters on her face. One was practically on her top lip, and without thinking he moved to brush it away with his thumb.

He realised his mistake the moment his oily thumb smeared the oily spot right across to her cheek, making everything much worse, and then he lost the thread of his thoughts completely as her breath hitched sharply at his touch. Her eyes met his, heat in her gaze, and he paused, a little shocked at her reaction. He watched, mesmerised, as his thumb of its own accord brushed back across her soft upper lip, the tips of his big fingers resting lightly on her cheek, and he dimly realised he’d stopped breathing.

There was an agonising pause, and then Robin cleared her throat, a high squeak of a sound, and Strike dropped his arm away hurriedly. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I’ve made it worse.” Flustered, he turned back to the engine, and missed Robin raising a trembling hand to her lip, feeling the burn where he had touched her.

Strike coughed a little, cleared his throat gruffly. “Want to try starting it?”

“Yup,” Robin replied, hoping she didn’t sound as wobbly as she felt. Her knees had almost given way when he’d stroked his thumb across her mouth. It was one of the most erotic moments she’d ever experienced. She gave herself a mental shake and went to climb into the cab of the Land Rover. “Er, have you got the keys?” She pulled the seat forward so she could reach the pedals.

“Oh, yeah.” Strike fished them from his pocket and passed them to her, not quite meeting her gaze. His fingers brushed hers lightly, and the keys were warm from his pocket. Robin swallowed and attempted to concentrate on the task in hand. “Ready?”

“Yup.” Strike stood back from the engine and Robin turned the key. Once, twice, the engine turned over, and then she heard the little cough, touched the pedal and the engine roared happily to life. Robin grinned. “Well done! What did you do?”

He grinned back at her. “Just cleaned some things, mostly,” he admitted. “Almost all the problems we had with the Vikings in the desert was sand getting into places it shouldn’t. We soon learned where to look.”

He reached up to unhook the bonnet stand, folded it down and slammed the bonnet into place over the engine. “All good.” He came round to the open driver’s door.

Robin turned to swing herself out of the cab. “You taking over?” she asked lightly, trying not to look at him, at his streaked face, his oily hands, his shirt marked a little with grease and sweat. He’d never looked so ridiculously masculine. Heat coiled within her.

When he didn’t answer she risked a glance at his face, on a level with hers as she sat in the high Land Rover cab. He was gazing at her, inscrutable, those dark eyes holding hers the moment she met them and not allowing her to look away.

“Cormoran...” she murmured, and then a small smile twisted his mouth slightly.

“I made quite a mess smearing grease across you, sorry,” he said, his voice low and soft but with an edge of something that raised goosebumps along her arms. “It’s quite...fetching, though.”

Robin gazed back at him, her breathing unsteady. “You’re pretty greasy yourself,” she said, trembling.

Strike smiled softly and took a step forward. “I don’t have a huge penthouse flat in Kensington.”

Robin laughed a little, high and nervous. “No, but you’ve got a bijou penthouse in the West End.”

He laughed at that, breaking the tension somewhat. “I guess I do,” he said, taking another step. He was close enough to touch now, close enough that she could smell the grease and sweat mingling with his cologne. “I can fix a car, though. If it’s not too broken.”

Robin shivered and reached for him, her hand going to his waist entirely without her bidding, drawing him nearer. “I’m very impressed.”

He leaned forward, sliding a greasy hand into her hair, his thumb deliberately smudging another mark across her cheek, and kissed her. Robin met him halfway, kissing him back eagerly. He felt new and strange and intimately familiar all at once, as though she had both waited an eternity to kiss him, and been doing it for years. She smiled against him as he deepened the kiss, joy surging in her soul, her heart fluttering.

Strike made a small sound in his throat and stepped right up to her, closing the last gap between them, his arm sliding around her to pull her against him, his hand still in her hair. His tongue came forward to explore, and he kissed and kissed her, in no hurry, sometimes languid, sometimes insistent. Robin trembled and pressed closer, both her arms around him now.

They kissed for long minutes until Robin began to feel quite dizzy, and drew away, breathless. She buried her face in his neck, shy and happy and a little overwhelmed.

“And another thing,” he murmured teasingly against her ear.

“What?” she whispered back.

“I can assure you I don’t look like Leo Banks in my pants!”

Robin giggled helplessly against him. Trust him to say something daft and lighten the mood.

“How about I be the judge of that?”


End file.
